


Superficial

by versus_versus



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Blood Kink, Blood and Gore, Broken Bones, Clothed Sex, Dubious Consent, Hair-pulling, Humiliation, M/M, Torture, Valerius needs more wine to deal with this, Valerius's poor life choices, before The Arcana game, call it really twisted foreplay, honestly Valerius/wine should be a ship, mentions of denailing, they don't actually have sex so ???, torture of an OC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-08 07:33:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13453464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/versus_versus/pseuds/versus_versus
Summary: Consul Valerius discovers that the Count's enigmatic past life as a mercenary has given him certain views on how an interrogation should go. Which is fine, of course, because it's not Valerius manacled to a chair, begging for mercy.Hereallyneeds another drink.





	Superficial

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimers: If you cannot make a distinction between fiction and behaviors that should not occur in real life, this fic is not the fic for you. It’s darkfic. It supposed to be awful. There’s not a single thing that’s good or soft about this fic. Lucio is a horrible person, Valerius is complicit and awful but not nearly as bad.  
> But boy howdy are they fun to write.

It’s a softly lit Thursday morning, and they’re finishing an informal brunch on the veranda and discussing the hunt planned for the remainder of the day. The others that had dined with them have been dismissed and conversation has gone casual, past earlier matters of diplomacy.

It’s mid-morning when they are interrupted. A servant appears at Lucio’s shoulder and leans low, whispering whatever is so urgent he must interrupt the conversation and Lucio frowns. “Send him in.”

A man is escorted in, not portly but not thin, a middle-aged, balding, sturdy-looking man. Valerius recognizes him and from his infrequent interactions with the court and dredges up a name from the back of his mind. Antonio? It sounds right. He works in the dungeons and is best known for his unsettling ability to extract information from prisoners.

Antonio bows quickly to the Count. “Your orders have been followed, my lord. We’ve been…unsuccessful in obtaining the bit of information you requested.”

Lucio’s pleasant expression cracks. “Excuse me?”

“He is…surprisingly resilient. Even when he does spill, it’s not the information you requested.”

“Tch.” Lucio exhales loudly. “Do I have to do everything myself around here?”

Antonio frowns. “Sir, if you want him kept alive, there is only so much the body can withstand without going into shock. He won’t hold up forever, it’s only been a week.”

“You seem to be under two mistaken impressions. First, it’s clear impermanent harm will not draw a confession from him. Second,” he throws back the remainder of his wine and smiles. “I never said I need him alive. I need the information he has, nothing else.”

“Ah. My mistake.”

“This does, however, present a unique opportunity.” He turns to Valerius. “Care to take a bit of a detour with me? I can’t promise it will be as pleasant as a morning at the hunt but I think you’ll find it, ah…equally entertaining.”

Valerius bows slightly, hoping to be dismissed. “My lord. I see no reason you would have need of me?” Frankly, the thought of it turns his stomach. To torture a prisoner isn’t unheard of, but it’s usually left to the professionals. Professionals like Antonio, who has always been a reliable source of…creatively obtained information. At least that way, there is an element of detachment. One can claim a lack of knowledge if publicly accused of torture. A high ranking official can’t be found involved in such a thing. It just _isn’t done_.

“Oh? I thought you might be interested.” Lucio says it lightly, but there’s a dangerous gleam in his eyes.

“Me?” He reconsiders. This is Lucio asking, and Lucio has certainly turned tradition on its head over the past year he’s been in power. For whatever reason, he has seen fit to allow Valerius closer to him than any of the others. And Valerius doesn’t want to think about what Lucio might be implying. Even as the thought makes his stomach turn, something warm in his chest clenches, forcing a hum of agreement out of him. “Mmh. Yes, my lord.”

“Good. It’s settled then.” Lucio grabs another bottle of wine and pushes it into his hands and says, “I suspect you’ll need this,” before turning down the hall and beckoning for Valerius to follow. 

* * *

The dungeons are ill-lit, but their purpose doesn’t require much light. They extend down past the furthest reaches of the cellars, where the few windows there are barred with iron, and let in only faint light from outside.

The cells are sparsely inhabited, and those few wretched souls that remain are long lost. The scattered torches that illuminate the halls flicker and wave across the uneven stone, casting strange shadows into the corner of one’s vision.

The larger room they enter is better lit, a number of torches casting brighter light about the cell. On the wall, a variety of unpleasant implements glint with a dull, evil light. Pliers and knives, hooks and lashes, and things Valerius can’t define, but knows on first sight that their purpose is malicious. The room has tables and stocks, frames meant to hold a body in place as Antonio or one of his people does their work.

A singular set of manacles, chained high on a weight bearing column of the room, catches and holds Valerius’s attention. His imagination skitters sideways for a moment, considering their use in rather less oppressive settings. Antonio closes the heavy reinforced oak door behind them with a thump and breaks his train of thought, drawing near the singular occupant of the cell with the torch he carries.

The light falls on a sorry creature, bound in a chair with thick metal manacles at his throat, wrists, and ankles. The smell hits Valerius like a slap to the face and his gag reflex tightens in his throat. He wrestles instinct down and clenches his teeth, bracing himself against the stench of old blood and rot. He refuses to vomit in front of the Count like this. Even so, it’s all Valerius can do not to flinch away from the mess of a man in front of him.

Most of the fluids on his skin have long since dried, although the rawest of the marks glisten as they ooze and weep. The marks that lick his ribs show the whip has not been spared, and deep red weals wrap his torso. Shallow slices have been left open to the air to scab over, and as he raises his head they crack, dribbling fresh blood. An ugly blossom of purple-black bruising spans his face, leaving his right eye swollen shut.

Even with the blacked eye, Valerius recognizes the man.

Rasmus.

His face is swollen and he’s gone thin as a mangy dog and his hair is lanky and slack and full of crusted blood but it’s _Rasmus_ , who has been reliably keeping Vesuvian politicos like Valerius himself abreast of developments in the Capital for nearly a decade. His stomach twists and he fights the urge to be sick again.

The look of adoration on Rasmus’s face as his eyes focus and he recognizes Lucio is _horrible_. He looks up at him like the Count is his savior, come to rescue him. “Count Lucio. My Lord. You’re…here.” His voice is thin and reedy, cracking dryly around the harsh syllables.

Lucio moves to the table of implements first, swooping in for an earthenware jug and pouring water into a cup. He goes to Rasmus’s side and stoops, murmuring words of comfort as he tilts the cup to the man’s mouth. “Shh. Shhh, here. Drink. Slowly now.”

Little of the liquid makes it down his throat, trickling from the corners of his mouth as he attempts to swallow. But it’s enough, a sweet taste of relief and Rasmus is crying, tears cutting fresh trails through the grime that has accumulated on his cheeks. “I’m…” his voice fails him again and Lucio shushes him gently with the cup at his lips again.

Valerius can see straight through the act. Lucio is never gentle, never so soft. Genial and admired, certainly, but never…kind. But Rasmus doesn’t know him yet, only rumors of him, and he’s in such poor condition that Lucio’s act must feel like a godsend. The Count’s voice is too soft, too soothing as he says, “We’ll get you out of here, don’t worry. All you have to do is tell them what they want to know and we can get you out of here and get you patched up.”

The quiet is thick. It’s only broken by the sound of Rasmus’s breath rasping in his throat.

When it comes, the look of confusion that slides into dawning understanding in Rasmus’s expression is somehow worse than the initial adoration. Valerius drains the glass of wine in his hand, desperately wishing for a moment that it wasn’t gone before remembering the bottle Lucio had pressed into his hands upstairs. It hangs in his left hand, which feels…distant. Like it isn’t his own.

“No. No, no, please, you have to believe me, I don’t know.” The look of devastation that grows in Rasmus’s eyes is too much for Valerius, and he turns away. He’s not nearly drunk enough to handle this.

Right. Bottle in his hand. Table. Table covered in…things. And suspicious stains. Valerius very carefully does not look at the implements spread out on the wood. He doesn’t think about the knife that’s inches from his fingers, a wicked serrated thing that looks so dull it can only be good for tearing. He doesn’t think about the things that might be ice picks, and he absolutely does _not_ think about the curled metal thing that looks suspiciously like an extra large corkscrew. Corkscrew...a corkscrew? He does a brief dance, patting down his pockets and coming up with an actual corkscrew he’d stashed earlier.

By the time he pours himself a generous glass of wine and dares bring his attention back to the scene at hand, Rasmus has stopped blubbering, seemingly having accepted the change of events. Lucio regards him with distaste, a faint apologetic smile twisting handsome lips. “It doesn’t have to be like this. All you have to do is tell me what I need to know.”

“I…can’t.” The word hisses through his split lips, cracking the scabs open again like the water had never touched his lips. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“This doesn’t have to be difficult, Rasmus. You’re making this so much harder than it has to be. Just…tell me. I’ve got a doctor, he can get you patched up. All of this can stop.” His voice is almost kind, wine-sweet and rich. Lucio’s eyes glint with angry red, struck through with blood vessels struggling to the surface. His demeanor doesn’t change, and the stillness in his stance is terrifying, like a predator waiting to spring.

“I don’t know. You have to believe me.”

“You don’t know?” His voice twists and warps, the wine-sweetness of it turning to tannins, acerbic and harsh. Valerius’s mouth goes dry. A horrible smile splits through the deceptively apologetic expression Lucio wears.

“I don’t...” In the restraints, Rasmus’s hands twitch and tremble. Valerius notices for the first time that all but three of his fingernails are gone, the beds of his nails left as bloody pits that have started to scab over.

The Count paces the room, riding boots clicking menacingly when they find clean stone. When they don’t, the layers of dried blood and filth blunt the sound.

A blood vessel in the unbruised side of Rasmus’s face pulses rapidly.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to remedy this myself, no?” The calm way he starts removing the official badges of his rank is far more horrifying than any knives Antonio could ever use. Medals, sash, glove, jacket, vest. Everything above the waist is removed and placed carefully aside on an empty chair until he is down to a shirt alone.

Valerius fixates on the whipcord-lean muscle of his forearm as Lucio rolls his sleeve up, distantly wondering how many times the Count has done this. The scene before him would be serene if it weren’t for the sick feeling of dread that grows in the pit of his stomach and threatens to crawl up his throat. Every action is deliberate. Sharp. Everyone in court knows Lucio has a history of trouble, but nobody knows quite what is truth and what is rumor. Right now, Valerius believes all of it. If simply stripping himself of all badges of rank can induce such a response, Valerius can believe every tale of battle-born bloodlust that has circulated the court. 

Once stripped of everything but his shirt, Lucio turns and walks casually to the table. He looks over the implements laid out, then snags the bottle that Valerius left there. He takes a single swig straight from the bottle before replacing it and considering the tools again.

He picks up a particularly plain looking pair of pliers and holds them to the light. Rasmus moans quietly, a sound of utter despair. “Please, my Lord, you have to believe me.”

“You’ll find me hard-pressed to believe a liar.” Lucio puts the pliers down and walks back to the man, shrugging it off like he hadn’t been considering outright torture. “Although I suppose, we don’t need any of these. The two of us can have a civil discussion, don’t you think?” The touch of the gauntlet on his cheek is gentle, careful. Valerius watches, frozen in place as Lucio caresses the man’s cheek like a lover.

The action is too tender for a man like Lucio. Still, knowing it’s nothing but an act does nothing to smother the heat kindling in Valerius’s stomach. He should be horrified, but no. Instead, he aches. He wants. As wrong as he knows it is, as sick as it is, he _wants._

“Fuck off,” Rasmus spits.

“Hm. Resistance won’t do you any good here.” The metal of the gauntlet gradually glows the orange of forge-iron, scorching hot, and Rasmus clenches his teeth around a scream, momentarily refusing to let Lucio see him cave. A whimper breaks from him involuntarily, and only when the flesh begins to sear and the air is filled with the stench of burned hair and cooking meat does he shriek. Lucio removes his touch, impassive, and waits for the screams to subside.

“Magic,” Rasmus gasps once he’s collected himself.

Lucio smiles faintly and holds the gauntlet up to the light, articulating the fingers with flesh-like fluidity. “You could have guessed that though. Something so elegant can’t be made without a measure of magic.”

“Not like that.”

“Call it an additional perk.” Lucio paces around him, his eyes never leaving Rasmus. “But enough about that. I think you’ll find that my patience has nearly reached its end. Where are they?”

“I don’t know.”

Lucio frowns. “Your stubbornness hurts no one but you. If you don’t tell me, someone else will.”

“You’ll have to find someone who knows.”

“And in the meantime, you’ll have to endure. How long do you think you can last? How long before the thirst drives you mad enough to let something slip? How long can you withstand pain like this?” One glinting digit gently strokes the skin that has begun to bubble and blister across Rasmus’s cheek.

He flinches away. “As long as I…I have to.”

“Unfortunate.”

A single talon slices along his jaw, cleaving long-bruised skin from joint to chin. The metal of the talon digs deep, dragging along the bone. The sound echoes in the air of the chamber and shivers through Valerius’s teeth, scraping through his skull to settle in the space behind his ears. Valerius can see a flash of white before the gash floods red with blood. He can’t stomach the thought of how much worse it is for Rasmus, who grits his teeth and refuses to look away from Lucio. 

Despite the disgust he harbors, he’s half-hard in his pants, and they’re getting more uncomfortable by the moment.

When Lucio finally lets go, Rasmus slumps back in his bindings and gasps for breath, trying to regain his composure. “Antonio, if you’ve got other duties you need to see to, feel free to do so. This may take awhile,” Lucio says casually as he shakes the gauntlet off, flinging flecks of blood at the ground and around the room.

“Sir?” the man asks, uncertain.

“That’s permission, if you need it.”

“Thank you, my Lord. I’ll…” he hesitates, “check in on you in awhile, to see if there’s anything else you need.” He scuttles from the room without a second glance.

Valerius takes a deep breath, wondering if he’ll be dismissed as well, but Lucio’s attention remains fixed on Rasmus. “I’m going to keep giving you the opportunity to make this stop. Where are they?”

“I don’t…!” He’s cut off as Lucio slaps him across the face. His head reels back and he slumps further in his bonds, half-gagging himself on accident.

“Then we’re going to keep talking.”

With each blow, Valerius feels himself drawn tighter, like a bowstring threatening to give. Lucio’s methods are straightforward yet excruciating. A failure to answer results in another blow, no two of which are the same. 

By the time Rasmus is shaking and sobbing, the very image of a broken man, Valerius can’t keep himself from wanting some sort of reprieve for him. At least a chance to splint the broken fingers and mop up some of the blood that has run down his neck and chest from the gash in his jaw.

“Another chance. My patience is wearing thin.” Lucio puts his hand on Rasmus’s forearm. The gesture is too personal, too familiar, and Valerius knows. He knows something bad is coming.

“No no no! I don’t know, I can’t…!” The gauntlet tightens about his arm and, in a show of inhuman strength, twists against the leverage of the binding about his wrist. The snap of bone is audible, and the moment of shock on Rasmus’s face before the pain hits is stomach-turning.

Then the pain hits him and he screams, trying desperately to curl in on himself despite the bindings that hold him immobile. Unable to move more than an inch in any direction, he writhes, ripping raw the weals that edge out from under the cuffs and collar.

When he finally stops thrashing, he chokes and vomits clear fluid, the water that had been such a blessing only minutes ago becoming a curse. Lucio’s smile returns, half-satisfied, as Rasmus finally brings himself back under control just enough to stutter, “I have...nothing...I can...to tell you.”

Valerius shudders. It’s a trial to watch the man before him thrash within his bonds, knowing what fate awaits him even if he gives what is asked of him.

“That’s not for lack of knowing, Rasmus.” Lucio says, disapproval dripping from his words. “I feel I’m…obligated to remind you that you can make this all stop.”

“I know nothing,” he sobs.

“Lies.”

“You.” There’s a long minute of silence as Rasmus rasps, breath whispering between split and swollen lips. 

“Yes, me?” Lucio says expectantly.

“Fuck you.” Rasmus spits at him and hits his shirt, the brown and red of blood staining it further. “Even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you anything.”

“You could, at the very least, make an effort to help me understand _why_ you of all people would refuse to give them up. What have they ever done for you?”

“It’s beyond you. That I could be telling the truth.” Rasmus’s remaining good eye widens faintly. “I’ve served this court...for a _decade_. This is the thanks I get?”

“We wouldn’t be here if you’d tell the truth.”

“You’ll drive Vesuvia to ruin. You’ll...you can’t do this.” Rasmus makes a sad, desperate noise. “Someone will come looking for me.”

“The only people who know you’re here are in this room. And Antonio. But this is his job, so...” Lucio spins sharp on a heel to fix Valerius with a glare. “You feel like crossing me?”

“Of course not my lord,” he says, trying to keep his voice level.

Lucio spins back with a smug smile. “And we both know my good man Antonio won’t be. So I think you’ll find _I can_.” He moves, fast. It doesn’t take the supernatural strength of the gauntlet for Lucio to snap another of Rasmus’s fingers with a cringe-inducing _crunch_.

Rasmus’s cry grates in the air, harsh and screeching. He flinches in his bonds, drawing them horribly tight about himself as they further strip abused flesh from the muscle below. The more he struggles, the more he displaces his broken arm, and the more writhes in the bonds in an ineffective attempt to escape the pain. It’s a vicious cycle.

Lucio stands impassive as he struggles, arms crossed. As Rasmus dissolves into visceral gurgling, he smirks. “What do you think, Valerius?”

Valerius has never been so hard in his _life_.

The wine glass in his hand trembles. A bit of the rich malbec splatters the floor, disappearing amid the smears of gore and the grime. “Pardon?”

“What next?”

At that, his mind _blanks_. He’s paralyzed by the thought that it could just as easily be him in the chair, that should he fail to provide a satisfactory idea, he might be the next one to suffer.

But he…couldn’t. He couldn’t summon something worse to mind than what Lucio was already doing, as he found he lacked the creative sadistic repertoire.

“Uhm.” He looks at Rasmus, who stares up at him, ragged and broken. The man is going to die, no matter what he does. “Perhaps a…short respite?”

Lucio’s eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”

It’s only decades worth of practice bullshitting to authority that saves him. “He’s going to burn out. Too quickly. A bit of mercy would…keep him alive longer. And the pain would be.” He wants to crawl out of his own skin to escape the look Lucio has directed at him. “More acute. Ah. Following a period of recovery.”

There’s a moment where Lucio stares him down, and he knows he’s been found out. Lucio is going to have him executed for something nonsensical, or worse, he’ll have him in that chair next, or…

“Full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“It’s simply...logical, my lord.” Valerius breathes again, fighting the guilt that he’s made the situation even worse for Rasmus, who has gone silent but for the ragged rasp of his breath.

“Hm.” Without warning, Lucio stomps on Rasmus’s foot and he flinches, yanking against his restraints and displacing his arm further. He screams and shudders, finally settling back into quiet, broken sobs.

“Yes, I suppose so.” It’s clear he’s done, and Lucio stands back to survey his work. “Valerius, if you would be so kind as to go get Antonio, I think we’re done here.”

Rasmus gives a faint moan that might be fear or might be relief, it’s impossible to tell.

Outside the room, even the damp, stale air of the dungeons is fresh when compared to the stench of blood and filth. He retrieves Antonio, who is busy entering names and dates in the log in an inelegant but legible hand.

On their return, Lucio wastes no time giving orders. “Set that arm back in place. At least give him a chance of healing properly, should he decide to cooperate.”

Antonio nods and sets about his work, unfastening Rasmus and bodily moving him into a wheeled chair, where he’s rolled away without further comment.

Lucio watches them go with a satisfied smirk. “That ought to take care of it. He’ll be singing like a bird the moment someone lays a hand on him tomorrow.” He picks up his jacket and accoutrements and turns to go, still spattered in blood. 

He looks like he’s just walked off a battlefield, and Valerius panics. “My lord, wait…!”

Lucio levels a pointed glare to where Valerius has grabbed his shoulder. “Get your hands off of me.”

“My lord, you…uh…” He takes a deep breath and gathers his courage. “There’s quite a bit of blood. Ah…everywhere.”

For the first time, Lucio seems to take notice of the blood and bits of viscera soaking through his shirt and the upper parts of his breeches. “Hm.”

“It might not be wise to be seen publicly in such a state.” _It’s just not done_ he wants to say, but he comes up with a better excuse. “It’s not up to court standards.”

“Send someone to go get a fresh shirt, then.” Lucio says it like it should be obvious.

“A poor idea to send a servant for clothes as well. They, ah, talk.” Valerius doesn’t know where he’s going with this, but the idea of anyone else seeing Lucio like this is…uncomfortable. He has no idea where the sudden wave of possessiveness came from, but all he wants to do is keep Lucio here. “The last thing you need going around the court is more gossip.”

“That won’t do. We’ll make staff changes a priority.” Lucio untucks his shirt and peels it off over his head, using the cleaner bits to wipe the remaining smears of blood from his skin. “In the meantime, I’ll need yours.”

So much skin being bared without a second thought drives Valerius to distraction. Scars stain his skin, a handful of old poorly-healed gashes that flicker over his shoulders and arm, a mottled burn that spreads across one pectoral, and a puckered star-like mark just below his left ribs that looks like an old puncture wound. It takes him a moment to register what Lucio has said, and even then he misses the point. “My what?”

“Your shirt.” Lucio holds out his hand expectantly.

“My…lord…?”

“Oh for the love of…” Lucio sighs, clearly put upon. “You don’t want me leaving here looking like this? Fine. I have need of your shirt.” He looks down at himself and considers the blood that’s soaked into the waistband of his breeches. “And your waist sash.” 

“I…”

“If there’s a problem, I’ll give you ten seconds to come up with something better.”

Valerius has several problems with this plan, but quite frankly, only one of them is the most _pressing_ , and the longer he’s forced to look at Lucio, bare chested and unashamed, the worse it gets. But he’s at a loss, and Lucio continues to stare him down, like it’s a challenge. “I…no. Of course not, my Lord.”

He takes a slow breath, trying to calm himself even as he unfastens the sash and works his way down the buttons of his jacket. He tries to still the tremble of his fingers, but there is no stillness, no calm he can call on to put out the scorching arousal that burns under his skin. The jacket peels away and he holds the collar in his teeth, hoping to somehow hide the bulge in his trousers behind the rich brocade as he unbuttons his plain linen shirt and slips it off his shoulders.

For the first time in his life, Valerius feels terribly insufficient on a physical level. He’s certainly never been involved in any distasteful physical labor, but he rides and stays active, and he’s engaged in a bit of swordplay here and there. It’s always been enough to keep him trim.

But Lucio is a man made of muscle and held together by scar tissue, and finding himself half bare in front of the count makes him feel…soft. Breakable. And it must show on his face, as Lucio gives him a disdainful once-over and says, “You’ve never seen a real fight in your life, have you?”

“My work has been more diplomatic in nature.” He reluctantly hands his shirt over and folds his jacket over one arm, holding it to his stomach and counting on it to keep hiding the erection that stubbornly refuses to abate. Lucio’s eyes stop at his waist, taking in the admittedly conspicuously held jacket, and he sneers. “Enough.” 

Panic rises in his throat. The ruse is up, and he goes for the only clear way out. He grovels. “I’m sorr…”

“Pathetic,” Lucio snorts.

Shame blooms hot in his chest. “It wasn’t my intent to…”

“What is it then, hm? Is it this? Blood and bones and burning flesh? The screaming?” Lucio waves his gauntleted hand behind himself at the chamber. “Or is it me?”

Valerius’s mouth is dry. He doesn’t have an answer, and he flounders.

Lucio waits a beat, then grins and advances on him. “Nothing to say for yourself? I thought words were your area of expertise. Being a diplomat and all.”

“That’s not...exactly…” Valerius retreats until he runs into the table and then there’s nowhere else to go. It doesn’t stop Lucio, who closes in until Valerius throws a hand up between them defensively. It’s an instinctive movement, and he can’t help but grimace with distaste as his hand comes away tacky with blood.

“You keep it all hidden under this,” his hand runs over Valerius’s shoulder, “façade of formality and court etiquette. You pretend you’re too good for base desires, that you’re better than everyone around you. But it’s all a lie, isn’t it?”

Lucio grinds his thigh down and Valerius chokes on a moan. His erection strains painfully against his trousers and it’s all he can do to keep himself from responding, from rutting up against the Count’s thigh like a some kind of animal. He _wants_ , but his pride stomps down on the words and they die in his throat.

“It’s all a lie because once that façade cracks…” his hand slides down Valerius’s chest, scraping the talons lightly across his skin, “turns out, you’re nothing but a court-bred harlot.”

“I’m not a…” he squawks, surprised and indignant as Lucio’s hand cups him, and Valerius can’t stop the broken sound of relief that comes from his throat as he realizes it isn’t Lucio’s gauntleted hand.

“There’s nothing _wrong_ with wanting it. It’s your attitude toward those of us who enjoy the more…visceral pleasures in life that needs adjusting.”

He wars with himself, trying to think rationally through the haze of arousal.

Lucio doesn’t wait for him to make a decision. Instead, he spins him around, pushing him chest-first into the table that had been behind him only moments before. Valerius tries to rise only to find himself pushed back down by a heated hand on the back of his neck, hips pinned to the edge of the table by Lucio’s gauntleted hand.

As his cheek presses against the old wood, it’s impossible to ignore the old smears of something dark on the table just in front of his nose. It reeks of blood and metal and something oily, and the wood itself is nothing compared to the things spread out on top of it. 

There’s a sick twist of excitement in his stomach as he looks past the pliers only inches from his nose, the ones Lucio had rejected, to the cuffs and picks and thumbscrews beyond. The gut-wrenching horror that follows doesn’t entirely wipe out the excitement, and he closes his eyes and tries to put the image they conjure out of his mind. 

Lucio’s weight against his ass provides a welcome distraction. The motion grinds his cock into the table and he groans, caught between the need for relief and the desperate desire not to embarass himself further. 

He arches his back to fit more closely into the v of Lucio’s hips, and the hand on his neck disappears. For a moment, Valerius feels a blinding panic that he’s done something wrong, until Lucio’s fingers thread up under his loose braid and tighten into a fist. 

“Don’t get cocky,” Lucio says and yanks his head back. He bends like a drawn bow and can’t help but groan. 

The fabric of his trousers bunches uncomfortably at his crotch, too tight but also just barely _not enough_. No matter how he grinds against the table under him, the harsh, somehow delicious friction isn’t quite enough. He hasn’t come in his pants since he was a teenager. 

The spikes of pain grow stronger as the claw on his hip tightens and digs in. He can’t tell if Lucio has drawn blood, and he move his head to see. It’s maddening. 

“You’d take anything I gave you, wouldn’t you? I could wreck you and you’d still thank me after.” He punctuates it by grinding against Valerius’s ass, pushing him harder into the table. Between his words and the pain and the sweet friction, Valerius comes with a choked gasp.

“Look at me.” Even as he breaks, Lucio demands his attention. The hand in his hair lets go and Valerius braces himself on the table, trying to catch his breath before turning around. 

“I said, look at me.” He does, and Lucio eyes the growing wet spot on the front of his trousers with a vicious grin. “Disgusting.” 

Valerius tries to salvage what remains of his dignity by playing it off as nothing. He leans back against the table, hoping that his face isn’t as red as it feels. He can’t remember the last time he found himself played a hand like this, but he admits to himself that he wants this to happen again, and reciprocation is to be expected.

Valerius goes down on his knees and sizes up the bulge in Lucio’s pants, trying to summon the spit and the enthusiasm for a blowjob worthy of a Count. 

Lucio looks down at him, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. It’s so easy for Valerius to lean into his grip when he tugs his head up. 

It comes as a surprise then, that Lucio pushes him back and lets go. “No.”

Valerius sits back on his heels, gaping up at him. “No?”

“Some of us have a measure of self-control.”

Dazed surprise creeps in as Valerius watches Lucio grab his shirt and pull it on. It’s too narrow in the shoulders, and he only buttons it halfway up his chest before giving up and tying Valerius’s sash about his waist. 

“I expect I’ll see you first thing tomorrow, then. We still have an informant to break,” he says, pulling his own jacket on and retrieving his other accoutrements. It’s a rakish look, a scandal waiting to happen, but it fits his devil-may-care attitude perfectly.

“Oh, and Valerius? Put your jacket on. It wouldn’t be...what was it you said?” he pauses, “Ah, it might not be wise to be seen publicly in such a state.”

The heavy door thuds close behind him and Valerius has the sinking feeling he’s revealed himself, like a rabbit baring soft belly. The anticipation that settles in his gut puts Rasmus’s predicament entirely out of his mind.

He’s got his own hide to worry about.

**Author's Note:**

> Questions and comments always welcome! I'm considering a part 2, we'll see if I've got the inspiration for it.
> 
> Or you can always come visit me at versus-verses on tumblr :)


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